Maria Scott Herndon: Fabric Of Being

When we see a destitute man hunched over a shopping cart or a stained woman in rags with the top of shoes on callused feet, do we feel a sympathetic sense of indignation? Do we feel compassion? If they did have shoes, could we stand inside them? It was 1983, I was waiting in a friend's car while she ran into a nearby shop. Something from across the street caught my eye. It was somehow off key relative to the music of the city. I studied the stirrings of newspapers and plastic bags. A cough of exhaust from passing bus unveiled a vague shape of a woman amongst the pandemonium of torn magazines, Styrofoam cups, McDonalds burger wrappers, grocery bags and various other urban droppings. Nearby, stood a granny pull-cart filled with still more bags. She was shaped by the debris of her city, She appeared to be organizing and reorganizing various discarded plastic bottles and aluminum soda cans with genteel precision of a collector of fine crystal. Every so often, she'd abruptly sto...

I am at my soul's window behind the shaded curtains of cautious tribulation. I stay safely encased within my rotund frame protected against the eyes of men. I somehow traded sensuality for personality. I figure if I can make them laugh than I am not dependent upon my body to impress. Thus, I have long since lost the battle to set my own standards of beauty and embrace my specific femaleness. I have let myself be measured by the likes and dislikes of Vogue magazines, commercials on television or the bodies of women twenty years my junior. I was thin as a child and through young womanhood. I was a lifeguard for the very beaches I now avoid. Subconsciously, the origin of the weight is based in fear; fear of sexual expectation. Nothing could have prepared me for the startling irony I was to discover. My largeness has rendered me invisible. Within this invisibility I find great freedom. If a man is walking in my direction, I can look him full in the face without being afraid of...

I am the child of a single parent who was a Narcissist. I didn’t always know she was a Narcissist. I didn’t always know there was anything wrong with the way she behaved. I didn’t always know that she was not like everyone else. However, something felt off kilter, but I didn’t know what it was. My mother trained me to tell her that everything she did was right. And when I did not agree with her, I was a bad daughter who betrayed her and then used guilt to keep me in line. A thought of my own was forbidden. Yet, my mother took credit for all my accomplishments. The fact that I've had so few accomplishments as an adult might have something to do with that. Who knows? The low self esteem that plagued me throughout my lifetime has made it very challenging to be a good student, employee, girlfriend and especially a mother. My mother projected the image of the perfect parent who happens to have an imperfect child. She covered herself efficiently. She used her charm to control ho...

You know how you feel now – so isolated and alone? Wishing someone/anyone would see you/hear you/recognize that you have value? That’s how it is, sweetie. You’re going to be feeling that for the rest of your life. Get used to it. And you know how you’re always chasing boys around the playground? Writing their names on your notebook…sometimes making up a name, just so people will think you have a boyfriend? How the ones you like always let you know they have a crush on someone else? That’s pretty much the way it is. And then, there’s school. You never manage to get your work done on time. Everyone thinks you’re smart, but you’re really just scraping by. Too bad. You’re going to take those lousy habits with you throughout your life and it’s really going to fuck you up. I don’t know what to tell you about that. You think you’re kind of funny looking now? Well, you are. You won’t change much. You’ll never grow out of the “interesting” stage. No one is going to be coming after ...

I've always limited my exposure to mainstream fashion magazines or TV. I tend to be more interested in art films and music. But no matter how alternative the movie, any main female role was almost always skinny. Is a story is only worth hearing, are you a significant character if you’re not skinny? I think that's all bull-poop. I know I'm worth more than my looks, yet people can compliment me on things I do like singing, crafts, writing but the thing that impacts me the most is the often said, "You have such a pretty face! When you lose that weight, you'll be so beautiful." So, theoretically,  if I should suddenly have a “bikini body” then in this culture, I will most likely think  that my eyes are way too far apart, or that my chin is a little too floppy, until I need to start ranking my earlobe shape on a 1-10 scale. LOL! I think a big reason many women shy away from calling themselves feminists is that they’re worried they won’t be able to live up...

Art by Tom Hussey Written two years before my mother's death. Is one's essence defined by the age of the body or their culture, economic status or gender? What are we without context time, gender and culture? My mother has gone through a true metamorphosis and continues to do so. She wears different costumes of the mind. Each costume is unique and from a different time in her life; drawing upon different life experiences. Alzheimer's disease has sponsored my mother's time travel. My mother was the provider of the family, thanklessly working two sometimes three jobs to make ends meet. Now her life has turned itself upon its head for she is completely dependent upon the family for her basic survival needs. I am painfully aware of my mother's constantly changing context of time, emotion and libido. The self my mother is most ill at ease with, is within the glare of the here and now. Although I feel relieved each time she returns, it is a selfish relief for her...